Lost Touch
by itsyogirlHudsss
Summary: Lydia tries to figure out who this "Stiles" is, and what he means to her. One-shot. Set right after 6.02


**Stydia- Lost Touch**

 _Disclaimer: I do not hold the rights to any character or to the show itself. Only the words are mine._

Lydia can't help but think about the events of the day as she takes off her heels and literally flops onto her perfectly made bed.

Stiles, she thinks again. Stiles.

Such an unusual name that is.

She doesn't remember who this Stiles is, but a lingering feeling in her stomach tells her that he may have been someone important to her. What exactly their relationship was, though, she has no clue.

All she really knows about him was that she loved him.

But what kind of love did they feel for each other? Was it the same way she loved Scott, or Malia? Was it the same way she loved Allison, as a best friend? Or, she couldn't help but wonder, was it the same way she may have loved Jackson?

Malia said that she was missing someone who helped her stay in control during full moons. Someone who willingly spent dangerous nights with her. Someone who kept her human. Malia had lost her anchor.

Scott, on the other hand, thought that he was missing someone he spent his best moments with. Someone who had lived all of Scott's ups and downs with him. Someone whose absence left Scott incomplete. Scott had lost his best friend.

What bond could ever compete with those two?

Lydia sits up and starts undoing her braid, a feeling of loss and despair paining her every thought despite her. How was she ever supposed to save Stiles if she didn't even know what he meant to her?

Suddenly, Lydia feels an arm around her, light but firm at the same time. She can feel it shaking, as if nervous to be there, but it just won't let go, holding onto her for dear life.

If Lydia wasn't used to this, she would've turned around to see who this person holding her was, but she knows that this is just a feeling. A feeling she'd been getting for the past few days. It would happen at random times. She'd sometimes feel a hasty kiss on her cheek while she wrote a test, or a warm, comforting hug when she sometimes cried because of the sickeningly loud clanking of metal rails she'd hear in her head. Whenever she thought about it too much, however, the spell would break. She'd shake back to reality, as if nothing had ever happened.

Tonight, she wasn't about to let that feeling go. Tonight, she'd hold on to it. She lets go of her hair and leans back into a person she knows isn't there. She feels the touch go slightly rigid, but then relax not a second later. Together, they fall back onto her bed. She knows she's laying flat against her mattress now, but she feels a chest underneath her head. She feels a strong arm around her waist. She hears a frantic heartbeat behind her.

She smells the person, too. She realizes, paying attention to what she assumes is a "him" for the first time ever, that he smells like blood, sweat, and, she thinks as she smiles a little, onion rings. It almost surprises her, how a scent this horrifying makes her feel safer than she's ever felt.

In a moment of weakness, she allows herself to close her eyes.

When she opens them again, she isn't lying on her bed anymore. She's in a room she doesn't recognize, her face buried into someone's chest. And not just someone, she thinks as she takes in his scent, but the boy whose ghost has been pestering her recently. She pulls back slightly, not enough to see his face, but enough so that she can clearly see his shirt. It's plaid, a pattern of blood red and navy blue she finds herself falling in love with. He isn't much taller than her, her eyes directly leveled with his neck. When she tries to look up, to see his face, she is unable to distinguish his features. He's blurred, and all that she can make out is that he's got hair that stands perfectly messy on his head, gently spiked. His arms are held tightly around her waist, and she can hear a distorted voice speaking to her.

"I love you," it says, over and over again.

Before she knows what she's doing, her mouth says it back.

"I love you too, Sti-"

And then she opens her eyes, laying flat against her cold mattress, her braid halfway undone, all alone. The moment has ended again, just like it always did. She can't smell the blood, the sweat, or the oil and onions anymore. The only scent in the room is the gentle perfume of her rose-scented room freshener.

She still doesn't know exactly who Stiles is, or what he looks like. She doesn't know anything about him, except for what he meant to her. She now knows what's on the line. She knows who she's out to save.

She's trying to bring back the man she's in love with.

The thought makes a spark ignite inside her, a determination that hadn't quite been there before. She now knows that nothing could stand in her way. She was going to remember Stiles, and she was going to save him. And she has enough faith in her inner banshee to know that she can do it.

* * *

Stiles springs back to consciousness with a jolt. He shakes his head, confused. He looks around to see that he's still at the old train station, surrounded by people who might as well have been zombies. He doesn't remember zoning out. What he finds weirdest of all however, is that he can still feel Lydia's head on his chest from when he dreamed about laying in her bed just minutes ago.

 _A/N: Hope you all enjoyed! Again, dedicated to my friends Rama and Madison. They help me a lot. Just so you know, I'm working on more stories with actual plots, now. Hopefully I can post them soon!_


End file.
